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Seeing pure happiness rise up on your best friend’s face is something you never thought could make you feel so complete. And you’ve seen it before, many times of course, with your lives and careers revolving around friendship and fun. But it’s a different type of happiness when Clay’s around George; it shifts slightly into something else—it’s slanted.
You see when you all stream together and Clay’s voice softens only for George, and you’re sure that Clay doesn’t even notice it. George doesn’t, most of the time—you think—except for the moments you hear Clay slip so far into sweetness that George asks, “Why are you talking like that?” He can get so defensive, and he doesn’t think twice before he says things.
Seeing the happiness Clay wears in person is something else entirely. Moving to Florida shows you his life as a constant, and you’re both around each other for most of the day. You see it all. You see the beaming smile he gets when he’s texting George, the blush that rises on his cheeks, and you have seen—when he doesn’t know you’re looking—him smiling so hard and hiding his face in his arms.
You wonder if it’s agony, for Clay. Wanting someone—loving someone—who’s far away. So far away that not only is the ocean separating you, but a Goddamn global pandemic and the law, too. You’ve seen it frustrate him to no end when time separates you both from George, when occurrences happen that would just be better experienced in person, and when endless complications arise with George’s visa. And specifically after a slightly emotional call you both have with George that later causes Clay to punch the wall in the hallway and send Patches skittering out of sight.
The hole in the wall stays there for weeks—Clay keeps refusing to hire someone, afraid they’ll figure out who he is since it’s happened before. It’s glaring and obvious and a constant reminder of the struggle they’re having right now, attempting to be close to their friend who feels half a world away. And you’ve both never met him, but that doesn’t matter. Because you know each other inside and out, no matter what, and that’s why it hurts to feel so beyond ready and have your life denied.
It’s killing Clay, you can tell. You know what it’s like to ache for someone who’s separated from you by endless miles—you know. Clay knows this, too. He’s aware of how your current “relationship” is so up in the air and scribbled over with We aren’t labelling it, and how you’ve admitted in the early hours of the morning as the world outside is layered in darkness, that you and Karl are scared because of the unavoidable distance right now. You both feel like you can’t do anything, apart from the odd times you fly to him or he flies to you. It’s hard and it’s messy, and it hurts you entirely when Karl’s giggles float through your headphones and make you laugh yourself. He bathes you in sunshine, and that’s also a phrase you’ve heard come from Clay’s mouth, too, directed right at George.
But Clay seems to have reached his limit the night the three of you are on call and George says, “I think I’m depressed.”
It rips you both in half, right down the middle, to hear those words come from the man who’s always a such bright light. And you and Clay are both in your own rooms, but you can imagine the expression he wears as he asks, voice thick, “What do you mean?”
And George says, “I don’t do anything—nobody’s here—I just want to come to the US.”
And it’s the break in George’s voice that pulls the words out of you, attached to a red thread of yarn, and you say, “What if I came to the UK?”
You went straight into applying for your passport the next day, and you could see the relief it gave Clay, and the sheer happiness it brought back to George.
“Thank you, Nick,” Clay says that morning, as he’s leaning against the kitchen bench while you make a coffee. “Seriously. Thank you.”
For someone who claims to love his own personal space, the hug George gives you at the airport is completely not that. He ran up to you when you locked eyes, pulling his mask down and beaming and engulfing you in a suffocating, tight embrace as you both stumbled together. His hold on you says everything he struggles to voice out loud: gratitude and love and pure joy. You wrap your arms around his thinner frame—completely aware that he’s fucking taller than you, God dammit, mystery solved—and you say, “It’s great to see you, Georgie.”
“You too, Sap. You too.”
You call Clay. Only after you and George have stood there exchanging excited words back and forth and staring at each other and George whacks your arm and says, “This is so epic.” And when the call goes through, George doesn’t hesitate to be the first to speak. “Dream!” he says. “I’m talking to you from Sapnap’s phone!”
And Clay laughs and says, “Hello! I can see that,” and everything feels right in the world.
During your first night in London, you find yourself stretched out on George’s grey couch with a blanket draped over you and your socked feet sticking out of the end. You’re holding your phone in front of you and smiling at Karl’s face as he chatters happily about his earlier stream. It’s almost four in the morning in London, way earlier in Florida, and even earlier for Karl. Fuck time zones, you think. But you make it work regardless.
“George was happy today?” Karl asks.
“Yeah,” you say. “Total change. He was so fucking lonely, Karl.”
“The embassy needs to get their fucking shit together.”
You hum. “Clay’s really going through it, as well.”
“Has he admitted anything to you?”
“Nah,” you say. “And he won’t. Not yet, at least.” And you take in the smiling and sleepy face of Karl through the screen, his bright face resting on the sleeve pulled over his hand and the back of the couch he’s curled into, and you find yourself smiling too. The words you want to say speak for everything you’re living through right now. So you say to him, “They just need time. And patience. Good things take time.”
Karl is quiet for a moment, smiling softly, and you know he got it. “Yeah,” he says, “they’ll get there in the end. It’s pretty obvious, they’re meant for each other.”
And days later, Alex comes. And Tina. And you’ve never seen George as happy as he is then. You speak to Clay on the phone and can feel the desperation and loneliness seep out. The yearning. He’s entirely relieved that George is happy, and he tells you so, but you can hear how he wishes he was there.
And you hear him say so, through an ageing wooden door, when you wake up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom and hear two voices coming from inside George’s bedroom.
“—wish you were here,” George says. He’s speaking in hushed tones, but you can still hear him. Noise carries easily in this flat.
“I do, too,” Clay says, voice fuzzy and clearly from George’s phone speaker. “You know I’d be there in a heartbeat if I could, right?”
“Yeah,” George says, “I know.” But it sounds kind of broken.
“I wish things were different, but—”
“But that’s the way they are,” George says. “I know, Dream.” And it’s hidden vulnerability in a name and you’re hovering at the closed door and you know it’s an invasion of privacy. You’re going to leave any second anyway.
“I’m sorry,” Clay says. “I just—you’ve gotta know that.” There’s a beat. “I—I could come, and risk people seeing me—”
“No, no, stop,” George says, hurried and hushed. “Don’t start. I know why you can’t come, I know—and I’m not trying to guilt you with that—”
“I know, George,” Clay says. “It’s okay—”
And with that, you walk away from the door and leave the whispered apologies and wishes for promises behind.
It’s awful when you’re at the airport, flight leaving in an hour, and George is desperately trying to hide how it’s breaking him. But it’s written all over his face because he’s going to be alone again. Everyone has left, apart from you. And you thought—naively, stupidly—that maybe some miracle would occur and George would get his Visa while you were there. You hadn’t bought a return ticket, leaving time open ended because just maybe you could’ve stayed longer and just maybe helped George pack up his house and all his shit and ship things to Florida. You could’ve taken your suitcases to the airport together and got on a flight.
But that didn’t happen. So now you're standing with a cap on your head and a hood pulled over, masks on both of your faces, and George’s eyes are glistening as he tries not to cry. And it’s awful. His demeanour is reminding you of that Godforsaken call you had with him and Clay that caused your reasoning for coming here. George hasn’t said much—you’d both been ignoring the inevitable of you needing to fly out soon—but you’re sure he’s feeling fear of the impending loneliness. And you don’t want that sadness to return either, because fuck—it wasn’t meant to be like this. George was meant to get his visa last year, and he was meant to come over before Christmas and you’d all be under the same roof and happy.
Fuck the law, you think. Fuck countries and fuck the ocean and fuck whatever damn luck failed on us and is keeping George so miserable and out of reach.
And you’re dreading seeing Clay and having to answer his questions of how George seemed when you left, because there’s nothing good about leaving. All of the good happened while you stayed, and you’ll opt to tell him that.
But he kind of knows. You heard George crying in his room last night and Clay’s voice trying to comfort him from four thousand miles away through shitty phone speakers. And when George had emerged in the morning, his eyes were still slightly swollen but you didn’t comment on it.
“Thanks for coming,” George says, airport noise surrounding you both. He’s gripping his fingers, hands before him, and is squeezing the life out of them. “Means a lot, Sap. I just—thank you.”
You nod and sigh and your eyes burn. “Fucks sake,” you mutter, and you reach to bring George into your arms, to your chest, and he wraps his own arms around you tightly. “We’ll see you soon,” you say, words muffled by the fabric covering George’s shoulders. “Real soon. We’re living in that new damn house you’re meant to be living in, so—it will be soon.” George sniffles and you shut your eyes. “I fucking promise you, it’ll be soon.” And you hate broken promises—ones that can’t be guaranteed, and you know Clay hates them even more—but there’s nothing else you can say. This is all George has been wanting, counting on, waiting for. Imagining the pain he feels is—yeah, you just can’t do that.
“Yeah,” George says. “Yeah, yeah, soon. I know.”
So you slap him on the back like a fucking idiot and it kills you when you pull away and see how red his eyes have gotten. You’ve always hated goodbye’s, and this one seems to be the worst you’ve ever had. Well, that and when you had to leave Karl. You can’t even think about that one without your chest splitting open for the whole world to see.
So when you’re thirty-thousand feet in the air and high above the vast blue, you pull your hood over your head and face the window as you feel tears drip down your cheeks. And you hate how it feels like life has frozen and won’t thaw for months. You fucking hate it.
It’s months later that you’re sitting on Clay’s bed, resting against pillows you’ve propped against the wall, and Clay’s slouching in his computer chair staring at his monitor. Grey light washes through the window and just barely lights up the room. George is on the screen and Clay’s webcam is on, and you’re all just silently soaking in each others company.
George looks pretty worse for wear, if you’re being honest, and the dark shadows beneath his eyes have only gotten worse since you left. You and Clay have taken more time and effort than ever before to make sure you’re there for him. And last night had been a particularly rough night for George, so you and Clay promised him that you could all stay on call today and hang out. It’s nice, the constant company, and you hope it’s comforting George. He’s smiled more today than he has in the past month, you’re sure.
You’re scrolling twitter when George breaks the silence and says, “Oh, fuck.” Your gaze snaps up to the monitor to see George with wide eyes and a mouth that’s stumbling over words.
“What?” Clay says. At the same time you say, “What happened?”
“The, um—” George says. “My—the—” He shakes his head and runs a hand through his hair.
“What, George?” Clay asks, urgent and demanding, and he’s sitting right on the edge of the seat now and staring intently at George.
You sit up. You inch across the king size mattress and shift Patches out of the way and come to sit on the edge of the bed because you know, and just have a feeling, that something big’s about to happen. “C’mon, Georgie, spill it,” you say.
“I just got an email,” he says. “My visa was approved.”
And you know that the yells you and Clay let out has to be heard by the neighbours. And probably all the way down the end of the street, too.
The sun seems to shine brighter, after that. And George does too.
The day that George arrives in Florida feels like the day that really changes your life. It’s the start of more, and he brings with him smiles and sunshine and a laugh that feels infectious. And one of the most important things is that it changes Clay, too, and you know it. It changes both Clay and George, and they haven’t even realised it, yet. You know it’s one of those glimpses of time, between two people, where the whole world can see it but them. And it’s only a matter of waiting.
So you wait.
George has been here for two weeks, and it’s on a morning during the end of the second week that you wake up to yelling. It’s passionate and enraged and loud, and you rip your pillow out from under your head and smother it across your face. It doesn’t help to alleviate the noise, and you curse the fact that your bedroom is the only one on the first floor—the floor with the kitchen and lounge room and the source of all this fucking yelling. You’ve barely had five hours of sleep, staying up till the early hours talking to Karl until he said he was going to bed, and you end up throwing the covers back and storming over to your bedroom door, only to rip it open and hear the mixed yells more piercing as they echo down the marble hallway.
“Dream—Clay! Let me—I won’t burn it, I swear—”
“That’s a fucking lie—”
“Can’t you just trust me—?”
“Hey!” you yell, gripping onto the wooden frame with all your might. “I’m trying to fucking sleep!”
You’re met with silence and then some grumbles you can’t make out, and you slam the door closed and bury yourself beneath his sheets once more.
You wake up hours later to peace and quiet, and a smile graces your face because of it. And even though Clay and George together can annoy you to all ends, you know you’re smiling partly because George is finally under your roof.
“Why not?” George asks. “C’mon, please.” He’s sitting beside you and you’re both facing the doorway, completely on show to the stream.
Clay’s standing in the door in a hoodie and sweatpants, and he’s gnawing at his bottom lip. “I was in your stream yesterday—”
“For like five minutes—”
“—why do I have to be in it today?”
You frown, able to parse through Clay’s body language and nervous lip and the words he’s been choosing to use. Over ten years of knowing someone will do that to you. “Mute the mic,” you say to George.
He turns to you, frowning. “Huh?”
“Mute,” you say, nodding to the mic. He leans forward and complies, and the moment you’re certain it’s muted, you stand up and move out of the frame over to Clay. “You’re nervous.”
Clay continues to chew on his lip, staring at you and not George, and then nods.
“What?” George asks. “Why?” He stands up so his head’s out of frame.
“Not comfortable with it yet,” Clay says. “With my face.”
“Yeah, that’s fine,” you say. “Take your time.”
“What do you mean?” George says, as if it’s the most absurd claim he’s heard. “They love your face. It’s half their fucking pfp’s—”
Clay rolls his eyes and says, “Fuck off with your pretty privilege. You don’t get it.”
George scoffs and leans against his chair, but he’s ringing his fingers now. “They all know you’re hot, Dream—”
“Right,” you say, “back to the stream.” And Clay says Another time and walks out of the room, and you and George settle back in your chairs. But you’re still thinking of the blatant compliment from George that ended with the name he uses to hide vulnerability when talking to Clay. It’s just another detail that has become apparent to you over the years you’ve known him, and even more so since he’s been in Florida.
Time, you remind yourself. They’ll get there, eventually. And that’s one of the firmest beliefs you have in life. It’s fucking inevitable.
George speaks softly, and it’s directed at Clay. “Sorry. About earlier. I didn’t mean to push.”
You’re sitting at the dinner table, scrolling your phone and eating spaghetti. You’re facing the kitchen, and over the island you can see George hesitantly walking up to Clay and gripping his own fingers before him. George had been napping in his room. His hair is a mess over his forehead.
“Hm?” Clay turns toward George, in the midst of stirring a pot on the stove.
“About wanting you on stream,” George says. “I’m—sorry.”
Clay waves it away. “You’re fine.” George mumbles an Okay, but it’s clearly not convincing, and Clay turns to him fully. “Hey,” he says, quieter, “I’m not mad or anything, okay?” George nods, big eyes looking up at Clay. “You’re fine,” he repeats. “All is well, Georgie. Want some pasta?”
George smiles and says Yes, Please, and his eyes flick over and catch on yours.
You look back down to your phone screen, and there’s a small smile on your face. You wonder if George can see it.
It’s close to two in the morning and you’re fumbling over your words with your phone pressed against your ear, sitting on your bedroom floor with images of what you’d just seen flashing through your mind.
“They’re driving me fucking insane, Karl,” you say. “I swear to God—they’re so fucking dumb. I don’t know what I’m gonna do.”
“They’re getting there, baby,” Karl says. “It’s another step forward—”
“Yeah, another slow step. Jesus.”
Karl giggles and you can’t help but smile. “So, they were really cuddling on the couch? Fast asleep?”
“Yep,” you say. “Never seen that before. Sure, they’ll sit real close when we watch movies, but they’ve never fallen asleep together.” You frown. “At least … not that I know of.”
Karl laughs. “Nick, I think you would know if they’d spent a night in the others room. It’s a big house, but it’s not that big.”
You run your hand through your hair and lean back against the bed behind you, “Sure,” you say. “Let’s keep telling ourselves that.”
Karl hums. “Just give them time,” he says. “That’s all you can do.”
“Mhm.” You nod and twitch your lip. “I wish we could fall asleep together, right now.”
Karl sighs. “Yeah, me too.”
You smirk and pick at a loose thread on your sweatpants. “So,” you say, “what are you wearing right now?”
And the laugh Karl lets out is bright enough to light you up for the rest of your life.
It’s little moments that you’re privy to that you know are building up into some enormous, burning ember that has to blow.
It’s Clay’s hand on George’s lower back as he inches past him in the kitchen. It’s lingering eye contact you notice out of the corner of your eye, in a darkened lounge room as colours flash across the television screen. It’s that moment when you went upstairs to find George, but had to pass Clay’s bedroom door, slightly slightly ajar, and saw the two of them lying close. So close that Clay was sitting up in bed and scrolling on his phone and George was lying between his legs, asleep, with his arms wrapped around Clay’s waist, and Clay’s hand curving around George’s hip. And it’s that moment you walked into the living room unaware and saw George standing only inches away from Clay, staring up at him, height difference very fucking apparent and words you hadn’t been there to hear had clearly died on their tongues. You’d muttered Shit, sorry and they’d jumped apart, mumbling excuses.
You want to scream to the heavens. They’re so Goddamn frustrating.
“You’re being a fucking idiot,” you say.
Clay looks up from the bowl of cereal he’s been blearily staring at and slowly making his way through. “Isn’t that my line?”
You roll your eyes and bite into your cold pizza slice leftover from the night before. “Today,” you say around a mouthful of mush, “it’s my line.”
Clay makes a disgusted face and shakes his head. “And why am I being a fucking idiot?”
You glare and swallow your food. “George.” And Clay raises his eyebrows as he brings a spoonful of cereal and milk to his lips. “Has anything happened between you two yet or are you still fucking around?”
Clay chokes and begins coughing and spluttering, and you snicker. “What?” he asks.
“I’m not blind,” you say. “I see what goes on. We live in the same house.” Then you narrow your eyes and say, “I’ve also been friends with you both for God knows how long now.” Clay’s still hacking out his lungs and you say, “Jesus,” and lean across to whack him a couple times on the back.
“I’m not”—Clay coughs a few times, trailing off into ragged breaths—“fucking around. What’s your problem?”
“Clay,” you say, “George is here now.” There’s silence, and Clay doesn’t look back up at you, staring down at the table and shifting the spoon around in his bowl. And you’re glad George is asleep because you might finally get some answers. You can’t wait any longer, and you’re certain they can’t either.
“We’re just friends.”
You take a moment before you speak next. “What’s stopping you?” But Clay doesn’t reply or shift his gaze from the table. “Clay—”
“Fear,” Clays says. And he looks up at you with one of the heaviest looks you’ve seen on him. “I’m terrified of fucking things up.”
“Okay,” you say, “I don’t think you will, though.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I feel like I kinda do.”
And Clay goes to respond but it’s at that moment that George walks in. “G’morning,” he says, rubbing an eye with a sweater covered fist.
Clay gives you one last, insistent look. You just nod and pick up your phone. “Morning, Georgie,” he says softly. “How’d you sleep?”
George is happy. He is. You knew the sadness he was feeling before was because of how he was living—away from everyone—yet it seems to have lingered. Only slightly.
You know that he doesn’t really like to be alone anymore. He hasn’t outright said it, but you can tell. It’s said in the way that he’ll sometimes follow you or Clay around, asks if you guys are going to watch a film, or will come sit on either of your beds on his phone if you’re at your desk.
But the moment you walk into the kitchen at four-thirty in the morning to fill a glass of water, you’re filled with fear that what George felt before has not only lingered but stayed—completely, embedded itself in the bones he calls his home. Because he’s sat on the edge of couch, hugging his knees and making himself look so small, and Clay is kneeling in front of him with hands rubbing George’s arms and gifting comfort.
George wipes his cheeks with the sleeves of his hoodie and tries to speak between hitching breaths. “It—it was so awful—”
“It was just a dream—hey,” Clay murmurs and he holds George’s face, brushing a thumb across his tear tracks. “You’re with us now. You don’t have to be alone again.”
George only nods and looks at Clay and his shoulders jolt with another stifled cry. And Clay raises himself slightly and wraps his arms around George, and George falls into the embrace.
Neither of them have noticed that you’re standing there, and you walk away quietly back through the doorway, heading to your bedroom with the need for water forgotten.
“You bought the tickets?” You ask. “You’re serious?” You’re sitting on your bed, eyes trained on nothing as you listen to Karl’s voice float through your headset. You listen for answers to promises you’d been recently told, and for things that make your heart swell in your chest. Karl always brings those feelings, and it aches to think it’s been months since you last saw him. Touched him. Held him. You have so much love to give and there’s only to an extent that screens and voices through the ether can give someone. You crave that togetherness.
“Yep,” Karl says. “I’m lookin’ at ‘em, right now.”
You sigh and relax, letting your back slide down the pillows just slightly. “Okay,” you say. “God—okay. Great.”
Karl chuckles. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” you say. “Just really fuckin’ miss you. Like, a lot.”
“I know,” Karl says, softly. So soft it makes your bones ache. “Me too. But soon. Just a couple of days now.”
You laugh. “Soon.” And Karl hums.
Soon.
They kissed. They fucking kissed, and you saw it, and you feel slightly bad for having seen it but also—holy shit, they fucking kissed.
And you knew it, you could see it coming from a mile away—from four thousand miles to be exact—since they’ve been dancing around each other like absolute idiots the past however many years. Oblivious. But you can’t blame them, it was a hard situation.
You knew it. You fucking knew it.
You knew it and you’re pacing in your room and you can’t even call Karl because he’s on the damn plane right now, and you have to leave in an hour to pick him up and—
Fucking finally. Those idiots. You laugh to yourself, unable to rid the grin spread across your cheeks.
When you lock eyes with Karl for the first time in months—real, true eye contact that isn’t separated by a screen—it breaks you open and lights you up and you smile so hard as Karl takes off across the shining floor toward you. You laugh at his grin and excitement, and when he finally gets there he almost bowls you over as you’re tackled in a hug. Your arms wrap just as tightly around him and you’re holding on and making sure you both don’t fall over as you fight to balance and stay upright.
“Holy fucking shit. Holy shit—oh my God—” you’re mumbling, and Karl’s arms are wrapped around your shoulders with his head shoved into your neck.
“Nick—”
“God, it’s been so long—”
“Months—”
And you stand like that for minutes that feel like hours, and you don’t want to let go. Karl’s gripping onto you and you hold him back and you think about how you’re holding the most precious person in the world to you in your arms. And you burn with love.
“George and Clay kissed,” you say. You’re driving, eyes flicking between the mirrors and the long stretch of road before you, lit up in the dark, and Karl’s in the passenger seat.
He’s sitting with one leg bent on the seat and jolts up at your words. “Wait—shit, seriously?”
You laugh and say, “Yeah,” as you indicate to change lanes.
“When?”
“Tonight. Literally like an hour before I left to pick you up.”
“They just straight up told you?”
“No,” you say. “Fuck no. I saw them.”
“You saw them?” Karl asks and then bursts out into his usual giggles. You smile. “Nick, you freak.”
“I didn’t mean to,” you say. “Jesus.”
Karl’s still giggling. “Right, so, tell me.”
And you launch into the story. And you talk about how you’d been in your room getting dressed and left to grab your shoes by the front door, and the moment you passed the entryway to the living room, socked feet padding on cold tiles, you saw them. Clay sat on the couch and George in his lap with his hands in Clay’s hair, and they were kissing. It was sweet, though, you had to admit. Soft. And you were happy for them.
You and Karl speak in quiet tones and loving words surrounding your best friends, both wondering if that’s the first time something’s happened, or if it was only the first time you saw.
“Wow,” Karl says. “So this is, like, a secret.”
“Yeah,” you say, “and fuck knows when we’re gonna be told of—whatever they are.”
“‘Soulmates’ is what,” Karl says. His eyes are cast forward out the windscreen and he’s entirely serious.
You smile. “Yeah,” you say. “I’d bet on that.”
Seeing George laughing never gets old; it’s such a change from when he was in England, loneliness increasing and eating away at him. And although he’s been here for months now, it still fills you with unease to think that he could feel that loneliness trickle in at any point. You’ve made sure to try ensure that doesn’t happen again, and you know Clay does consistently.
Seeing George laugh though is also wonderful because it lights Clay up just as much as George. And seeing Karl laughing with George lights you up.
The moment Karl steps through the door and sees George he engulfs him in a hug that almost trips them both over, and George is laughing and ecstatic, just as much as Karl. And then Karl’s looking over George’s shoulder and seeing Clay leaning against the entryway and says, “Holy shit—Dream?”
And Clay laughs and says, “Yeah, it’s me,” and then he’s being hugged enthusiastically by Karl and giving just as much energy back.
You’re smiling as you watch them meet for the first time, as George joins the two, and you think the house has never been filled with so many happy voices at once.
You’re all gathered on the couches and playing Mario Kart, and you haven’t failed to notice George’s head dropping and jolting up again. Continuously. At one point Clay nudge’s George and whispers something, and then George is nodding and curling into Clay’s side and squishing his face against his chest, closing his eyes to sleep. Clay’s arm wraps around his shoulder, thumb brushing back and forth, and he looks across at you and your eyes lock. His expression is blank for a moment, and then he shrugs and gives you a small smile. You grin back.
And when both Clay and George have fallen fast asleep on the far couch, Karl looks at you and raises his eyebrows with a smirk.
Later that night, Karl’s sitting on your waist, leaning back against your propped up legs as your feet sit flat on the bed. He’s an angel, you think, truly.
“I love you,” you say.
And when he leans down and kisses you, you melt. You always do. And you don’t think that’ll ever change.
“I love you, too,” Karl says. And you know that will never change, either. You know it will all your heart.